Something about the walker, or perhaps the dog, is familiar.
‘I think that’s him,’ says Ruth to Nelson. ‘Jack Hastings.’
Sure enough, the man and his dog turn into the drive that leads to Sea’s End House. Nelson hurries to catch up with them.
‘Mr Hastings?’
Jack Hastings turns in surprise. The wind seems to take Nelson’s words and throw them into the air. Hastings puts his hand to his ear.
‘DCI Harry Nelson,’ Nelson shouts. ‘Of the Norfolk police. Could I have a few words?’
Hastings now registers Ruth’s presence. ‘Ruth, isn’t it? The archaeologist?’
Ruth supposes a politician has to have a good memory for names, but she is nevertheless impressed.
‘Dr Galloway is assisting us with our investigations,’ says Nelson, lapsing into police-speak.
‘You’d better come in, then,’ says Hastings politely.
Ruth is interested to note that this time Hastings leads them into a baronial sitting room where vast sofas lie marooned on acres of parquet. Presumably archaeologists deserve the kitchen, but the police count as guests.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ asks Hastings, shrugging off his coat. ‘Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Keep out the cold?’
‘I’m driving,’ says Nelson. ‘Coffee would be grand.’
Ruth would love ‘something stronger’ but she feels sure that Nelson would disapprove. Not only will she be driving later but she is also going to be operating a heavy baby. ‘Coffee would be lovely,’ she says.
She wonders if Hastings will ring a bell and summon discreetly uniformed staff but he trundles off by himself, accompanied by the spaniel. Ruth and Nelson sit alone, facing a monstrous fireplace built of stones so vast that they could be rejects from Stonehenge. The room has large sash windows which rattle in the wind and French doors opening onto a stone terrace. Beyond the terrace is the sea, iron grey, flecked with white. There’s no fire lit in the massive iron grate and Ruth finds herself shivering.
‘Upper class buggers don’t feel the cold,’ says Nelson, noticing.
‘I must be distinctly lower class then,’ says Ruth.
‘No, you’re middle,’ says Nelson seriously. ‘I’m lower.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘You went to university.’
‘That doesn’t make you middle class.’
‘It does in my book. My daughter, now, she’s well on her way to being middle class.’
‘Is she at university? What’s she studying?’
‘Marine biology. At Plymouth.’
Ruth does not quite know how to reply to this but luckily the door creaks open and Hastings enters, carrying a tray. He is accompanied, Ruth is surprised to see, by an elderly woman bearing a coffee pot.
‘Let me introduce my mother, Irene,’ says Hastings, putting the tray on a rather ugly brass trolley. ‘She’s in charge of all the tea- and coffee-making round here.’
Certainly Irene seems to take an immense proprietorial interest in making sure that they have all the coffee, milk, sugar, sweeteners that they require. Ruth is quite exhausted by the end of it. She expects Irene to fade away once the drinks are served but the old lady settles into a chair by the window and reaches for a sewing basket placed nearby.
‘Mother loves her knitting’ is Hastings’ only explanation.
‘Mr Hastings,’ says Nelson. ‘I believe you know about the discovery made under the cliffs here?’
‘The four skeletons,’ says Hastings, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Yes.’
‘Six skeletons, in point of fact.’
‘Six?’
‘In confidence,’ says Nelson, noting how much Hastings seems to enjoy these words, ‘the archaeologists think the bodies were probably buried between fifty and seventy years ago. I believe your family has lived in this area for many years. I wondered whether you could remember hearing of any incident in the war. You’d be too young yourself, of course,’ he adds hastily.
Hastings smiles. ‘I’m sixty-five. Born in 1944.’
‘Ever hear of anything strange happening? Any disappearances? In the war perhaps.’
Hastings throws a quick glance at his mother, knitting by the window. A row of plants sits on the window ledge, some in pots, others in more eccentric containers – soup bowls, hats, what looks like a riding helmet.
‘I was only one when the war ended, Detective Inspector,’ says Hastings. ‘My dad was the captain of the Home Guard.’
Ruth has an immediate picture of Dad’s Army, of Captain Mainwaring and the other one, the butcher, shouting, ‘Don’t panic!’ She starts to smile but then, listening to the wind whistling through the windows, she thinks: I wouldn’t have liked to live here in the war.
Nelson asks tactfully, ‘Is your father… still…?’
‘No. He died in 1989.’
‘Is there anyone else still alive who remembers that time? Perhaps your mother?’ Nelson looks over at the serenely knitting figure.
‘Ma,’ Hastings raises his voice. ‘The detective is asking about the war.’
‘I’m sure you would have been a youngster,’ says Nelson gallantly.
Irene Hastings gives them a very sweet smile. She must have been pretty once, thinks Ruth. ‘I was a good deal younger than my husband,’ she says. ‘We were married in 1937, I was only twenty, Buster was forty-four. I had my first child, Tony, when I was twenty-one. Barbara came along a year later. Jack was the baby.’
‘Where is your oldest son now?’ asks Nelson. He wonders why Jack, ‘the baby’, has inherited the house over his brother’s head.
‘He died when he was still in his thirties. Of cancer.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Nelson.
‘The inspector is asking about the Home Guard,’ says Jack quickly, perhaps to deflect attention from the dead Tony. ‘Are any of them still alive?’
‘The Home Guard were mostly older than my husband. He was forty-six when the war started. He’d fought in the first, of course.’
‘Got the MC,’ chipped in Hastings. ‘The Military Cross.’
‘Yes, he got a medal, Jack,’ says Irene in a faintly chiding tone, ‘but he never forgot the horror of it all.’
‘So are none of the Home Guard still alive?’ pursues Nelson.
‘Well, there were a few young boys. You could be in the Home Guard if you were too young or too old to fight. I’m not sure about Hugh or Danny. Archie’s still alive, though. He sends us Christmas cards, doesn’t he, Jack? He must have been about sixteen when war broke out. He joined up later, of course.’
‘Archie?’ says Nelson, getting out his notebook. He’s prepared to like Archie; it was his dad’s name.
‘Archie Whitcliffe.’
‘And the other two – Hugh and Danny?’
‘I think Hugh still lives somewhere nearby. I saw him a few years ago, just after his wife died. I don’t think he’s dead though. I always read the In Memoriam column in the local paper.’
Cheerful, thinks Nelson. He supposes though, at Irene’s age, the In Memoriam column is just a way of keeping up with your friends – Facebook for the over-eighties.
‘Do you remember Hugh’s surname?’
Irene’s face crumples. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t.’
‘That’s okay. And Danny?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about him.’
While Nelson is digesting all this, the door opens and a girl comes in, this time accompanied by two spaniels.
‘Is Flo’s paw better, Dad?’ she asks and then stops, looking around in surprise.